Coven: a dark medieval paranormal romance (Witches of the Woods Book 2) (13 page)

Sadon didn’t even look around.
Bastard.
I watched the line of prisoners move down the valley, approaching the gates of the city, and their doom. Two ravens circled the road overhead, waiting for the best time to swoop down on the mother’s body, a feast laid out for them. I wondered what she had done to incur Sadon’s wrath. Probably, a neighbour – jealous of the way her husband looked at the pretty woman – had accused her of witchcraft. And now she was lying dead, with no one to mourn her or send her body on its way.

I felt a familiar, cold anger rise up in my chest. If things had worked out differently, that could have been Ada. That woman was a
mother
, and he just beat her to death and left her lying down there.

I sighed as the idea entered my head, resting my hand on the hilt of my sword. I knew I would do it, even though it was foolhardy and dangerous. I couldn’t just leave her there. I glanced over my shoulder. Tjard was sound asleep, propped up against a tree. Beside him, Willow and Sycamore stood guard. They would alert him if anyone came near. I patted Willow’s mane, and pulled a small spade made of riven wood with a bronze tip from the loops of her saddle bag.

“Sorry, old girl.” I whispered, scratching her behind the ear. “I’ll go quicker if I’m by myself.”

I scampered through the trees as quickly and quietly as I dared. I didn’t have much time. At any moment another party might come down the road, and I needed to remain unseen. I located the body at the edge of the road, rolled down into the ditch so she faced up at the sky. The crows had already made off with her eyes, so she gazed up at me with grisly, empty sockets.

Up close she was even more beautiful, with a heart-shaped face and long, flowing golden hair. Her body was clearly once comely, but was now emaciated from lack of food and mistreatment. Her skin and dress were coated with blood and filth. I grabbed her stiff arms and dragged her into the trees.

I’d got to her just in time, for as soon as I moved her up the hill and behind a large oak, a carriage rattled past. I held my breath until I could no longer hear the clatter of its wheels, and then I continued deeper into the forest. I found a clearing of trees, with a beautiful patch of wildflowers growing at the edges. The snow wasn’t deep here, and the ground was soft. I thrust the spade into the ground, and started to dig.

After an hour’s hard work, I had a large enough hole. I tipped the woman’s body inside. It seemed so inadequate, such a pathetically lonely death for a woman that had laughed and loved and had dreams and hopes and prayers. I had no offering to give, no blessing that I could make for this unfortunate soul. On a whim, I took off the amulet I wore, the one I’d taken from Rulf, and tucked it under the edge of her tunic. Now at least she had a coin to pay the ferryman.

That done, I filled in the hole, said a short prayer, and set a small pile of stones to mark the place. At least in death, she had been shown the dignity and respect she should have been due in life.

As I trudged back to our camp, I vowed that I would do everything in my power to end this madness. It wouldn’t stop after my father was dead. As long as we kept fearing witches, instead of respecting them, innocent woman would die again and again, and the world would be a dark and sorry place.

Tjard was still asleep when I approached him. Willow spotted me immediately, and kicked him awake. His hand flew to his sword, but I was faster, pushing my boot against his wrist until he dropped his hand. “I knew it was you,” he yawned. “I was just testing your reflexes.”

“Of course you were.” I slumped down against the tree, and took a long swig from our mead-skin. “It is my turn to sleep now.”

“Why are you all covered in dirt?”

“I’ll explain later.” I pulled my cloak over my face, weariness rushing over me. “Goodnight, Tjard.”

A
s night fell
, we saddled the horses again, and moved toward the city. Stuttgart was only three miles from our camp, so in no time at all we could see the city walls. Usually, they were heavily guarded, but with the plague out in force the population was so dwindled that they did not require the same number of soldiers. I knew immediately why my father had chosen this city for the first of his great witch trials: the people here were so sickened from plague and suffering, they would be clamouring at the bit to blame their ills on a flock of witches. They would gleefully cheer while hundreds of innocent people burned.

We watched from our hiding place as the city watch bolted the gates.
Time to strike.
Tjard and I tied Willow and Sycamore to a tree, hidden in a low gully where they’d have little chance of being spotted, and crept closer to the gate, our feet crunching against grey snow and splashing through rank puddles pooling in the pothole-riddled road. The smell of putrefaction assailed my nostrils, hanging thick in the air, a sure sign of a city crippled by the Pestilence. And sure enough, as we passed along the road, we stared down into deep pits on either side, some twenty feet deep and fifty-feet across. Although they were each half-filled in with mud and dirt, it was not enough to obscure the mound of bodies that had been dumped inside, those fresh corpses on top still grinning in silent agony as the carrion birds swooped in to peck at their skin. In the damp weather the bodies trapped beneath had turned into a sickening, sludgy soup, with bones sticking up through the sludge like cairns for the fallen – the only memorial these unfortunate souls would get. It sickened me to see that we’d resorted to dumping bodies into pits like barbarians, no one deserving of a proper burial.

Except that woman on the road.
I reminded myself. My good deed was such a small thing next to all this suffering, but I hoped that the woman had risen to heaven, where – if my father had any say in the matter – her child would join her soon.

“The wicket is open,” Tjard whispered, pointing to the small door in the city gates that swung on its hinges in the cool breeze. Many cities would leave the wicket open even after the main gates were shut, so that drunkards who had wandered too far from the city could find their way back into the safety of her walls. That was a stroke of luck for us, for it meant we didn’t have to scale the wall.

I’d counted two guards at the gates earlier, nothing we couldn’t handle. I nodded to Tjard, and as silently as possible, we crept along the edge of the road, sticking to the shadows of the trees in case there was still someone else outside the gates. When we neared the gate, we pulled our swords from their scabbards. As I felt the familiar weight in my hands, my whole body tensed, coiling up like a snake ready to strike. The blade felt as though it were part of my body, lifting it again made me whole.

I gave Tjard the signal to move in behind me. I crept toward the wicket, holding my heavy sword with one hand while I stretched the other toward the door. I counted down from ten in my head, and shoved the wicket open, banging it against the hinges on the other side. The sound punctuated the quiet night. Beside me, Tjard cringed.

I waited a few moments, but no head popped through to see what had caused the wicket to slam open. No one called out for our names. With my sword point raised ahead of me, ready to greet the guards with its deadly point, I stepped through the door. My shoulders had to bend awkwardly in order to fit through the tiny gap.

At any moment I expected a blade to sail towards me. I pulled my right foot through and stepped forward, ready to meet the guards, but all that greeted me was a loud snore. I glanced around furtively. The street in front of me was empty, and the two guards that were supposed to be guarding the gates were slumped against the wall, their heads resting on each other as they shuddered with the force of their snores. I saw a wineskin propped up between them.

I called back over my shoulder to Tjard. “They were mighty foes, but I’ve subdued them.”

Tjard clambered through after me, his own sword unsheathed. He laughed when he saw the men slumped in front of me.

“Damn,” Tjard grinned as he placed his blade back in his belt. “I was looking forward to using this.” He picked up the nearly-empty skin and took a swig, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

“Patience,” I hissed back. “You may well get the chance before the night is out.”

Our entrance to the city now secured, we crept down the dark street, following the faint sound of talking and laughter carried on the crisp breeze. Lamps burned on the corners of the streets, and I could see up ahead the lantern lighter was still on his rounds. It was early in the evening, and the town was unusually quiet. Apart from those in the street, no other lanterns burned inside the houses we passed. As I looked closer, I saw windows had been boarded up, doors barred with large poles or heavy locks, gardens overflowed with weeds, and strange spells and sigils had been scrawled across the walls of some of the houses. My stomach tightened as I realized what I was staring at – plague houses, where the city had shut up victims and their families to live out their last days in fear and misery. Stuttgart had truly become a city of the dead.

We drew closer to the lantern lighter, who hurried through the street of plague houses, only every third lantern burning bright. He cursed as he reached up to light the lantern on the crossroads. Three times he managed to light the wick, before the wind snuffed out the flame.

“You there!” I called out to the lantern lighter. “Where would I find the beer hall?”

He turned and for the first time saw us, two black-clad men with swords on our belts swaggering through the street of death. His eyes grew wide with terror, and he opened his mouth to reply, but all that came out was a choking sound.

“We’re not here to trouble you, sir.” Tjard said, his voice a little softer than mine. “We’ve been long on the road, and we just want to know where we can wet our tongues in the city.”

The lantern lighter jabbed at the air frantically. “You’ll find the hall j-j-just on the other side of the square, opposite the
Rathaus
, scharfrichters,” he stammered. “Th-th-there are plenty of your sort there already.”

Tjard and I darted down a gloomy alleyway and weaved through the maze of twisting, winding streets, until we came around the other side of the square. We could hear the beer hall before we saw it – the sound of several men yelling at each other over the din of a rowdy folk band, tankards slamming against thick wooden tables. The noise of chairs and benches crashing down as drunk men tried to navigate through the crowded room.

“Sounds like home,” Tjard grinned.

We snuck into the back room and hid behind the barrels. I noticed that each barrel bore a familiar seal – Lord Benedict had his own
hofbräuhaus
, and he controlled the brewing rights for most of the ale in the area. Only his ale was able to be consumed within the walls of the city, and I’d had it often enough to feel my thirst dying in my throat at the thought of its foul taste sliding over my tongue.

But we were not there to drink. There was no lantern in the room, and in our dark cloaks there was no chance we’d be spotted. We crouched down beside the entrance to the bar, and listened.

It soon became apparent that a table near the door was occupied by at least four scharfrichters. As they knocked back tankards of Lord Benedict’s dark ale, they boasted to each other of the number of witches they had imprisoned and killed. My stomach twisted with rage at their words, and my hand hovered over the hilt of my sword. How I longed to leap out from behind the shelves and slice them all open.

Tjard must have seen the anger in my eyes, for he reached forward and squeezed my knee, reminding me our mission did not include a bloodbath. At least, not yet.

“I thought Rulf and Asher would’ve been here by now.” One of the men – young, with only a line of stubble across his jaw – said. I heard his lips smack as he sucked down his ale. “They departed from Ulm a full day before me, and you know that Rulf was keen to be first here so he could suck up to Damon.”

“They might have been waylaid on the road.” his companion, an older man with a flowing white beard, replied. “I was two days longer than I should have been because I was stopped twice on the way by villages wishing to give up their witches into my care.”

“Aye, yes.” said another. “I had three more sorcerer women given to me in this way. One village was so incensed I had to dispense justice on the spot, or there would have been a riot. The good people are desperate to rid themselves of their menace.”

The men moved on to discussing Lord Benedict’s summons. “I don’t understand why we’ve been summoned here. Stuttgart isn’t even part of our jurisdiction,” said a young male voice. He slurred his words slightly, and I heard the slam of his empty tankard hitting the table. “I can kill my own witches perfectly well in my hometown.”

“Damon wants us to march together to Rotstrom,” answered another voice. This man sounded older, sharper. “He believes a show of force will put the fear of God into the witches.”

“Ah yes, Damon of Donau-Ries. Why is it that he now dictates our actions? He answers to the same power we do.”

“When you have single-handedly rid the world for five hundred witches and taken arms against your own son to safeguard our profession, then you too will earn my respect.” said the older man. “But until then, you will speak no ill against Damon of Donau-Ries.”

“What’s this about his son?”

“You mean you haven’t heard?” This was another scharfrichter, with a strong Bavarian accent. “Don’t you remember Damon’s son, Ulrich? He was almost as feared as his father in the West. Well, he was sent to kill a witch, but instead he fell under her spell. The Elder of the village notified his father, and now Damon has officially disowned the son and called for him to be trialled for his crime. There’s a price on Ulrich’s head, and the head of the witch who enchanted him.”

Another man tsked. “It just goes to show, even the most righteous men can fall victim to a witch’s fearful powers.”

The four men stopped their conversation to mumble the Lord’s Prayer.

“So, if Ulrich is on the run, does that mean his territory is up for grabs?” the young voice said eagerly.